John the Dreamer and the dagger of truth

By David Seed

John the Dreamer, college freshman in 1949, is having a nightmare. He knows it will change. He wakes as King John in the year 4732 in a city-state under siege. He learns this is not his first prophetic dream to the future and that he must save the future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Western Grebe Publishing
• Release date: Jul 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476340708

David Seed

###About the author:David Seed was born August 15, 1931 in Minot, North Dakota. In his eleventh year the family moved to Dunsmuir, California where he graduated high school, believing himself to be a writer. In the fall of 1949 he started at the University of California at Berkeley and did his best to learn what he could of life. He managed to graduate in the spring of 1956 and continued to follow his calling, experiencing a chaotic life as both participant and observer. He is now an old man writing books in Oregon.

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John the Dreamer

and the dagger of truth

By David Seed

Copyright David Seed 2012

Western Grebe Publishing

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Dedication

Written for Mary G. Brewer, the love of my life.

CHAPTER ONE

Wait a minute!

Soldiers shooting people...with me trying to escape through a storm drain...rats scurrying under my feet?

This is a nightmare.

I haven’t had one this bad in a long time, but I know it’s a nightmare, and I don’t have to panic. It just feels that way.

It’ll change in a minute.

I studied half the night, for-pete’s-sake. I should be dreaming about chemistry.

Where are all these rats coming from? I’ve got to get out of here.

The dream changes....

I open my eyes and see a fuzzy green ceiling. I try to focus but can’t get rid of the fuzziness. It floats and swirls and radiates warmth. I feel the heat on my naked body.

What happened to my clothes?

I try to sit up but can’t. My arms and legs are tied down. Even my head is in some kind of restraint. I can move my eyes just enough to see walls that look like green cotton candy.

This isn’t my room; this isn’t my bed. I’ve jumped from one nightmare into another one.

I catch sight of my feet, but they don’t look right. I wiggle the toes, and they move, but they’re stubby toes. I know what my feet look like, and those aren’t mine. They’re sticking up where my knees should be. I’m not this small. Those aren’t my feet.

I hear a noise like radio static. A very small woman with short, black hair steps out of the green wall and comes toward me. She looks about four and a half feet tall, but she’s well proportioned with nice curves. Her gown is purple, made of a thin, silky material, flowing with every movement of her body, revealing more than I’m used to seeing of a young woman. She bends over me.

I try not to stare. Even in a nightmare, getting aroused while tied down would be embarrassing. I hope it’s not that kind of dream.

John, what happened? she asks. Talk to me, John; it’s me, Bell. Did you hurt your eyes? They don’t look right. Were you exposed to the light? What were you doing? I’ll untie you, but don’t rub your eyes.

Bell seems to know my name, but she can’t know who I am. I’ve never seen her before in my life, and my eyes don’t hurt. Besides, she has a strange accent. She speaks quickly, and I have to listen carefully to understand her words.

Hold still while I remove the neuro-scan, she says.

She must be a nurse.

She gently removes something from around my head, allowing me to take a better look at the room, a room completely covered in green fuzz with no windows or doors.

Looking down at my feet, wiggling the funny toes again, I notice I’m wearing some kind of underwear. That’s a relief.

Reaching to unbuckle a wrist strap, Bell stops at the sound of static. She looks up at the wall as two small, hooded figures step through the green fuzz.

The first figure, a girl, throwing back her hood, comes forward, walking in a cloud of purple silk. Her short, black hair is feathered, gleaming with purple highlights. A jeweled scabbard and dagger hang on a silver chain around her waist, a large red ruby glowing atop the dagger handle. She holds her head high but is no taller than the nurse.

The second figure appears to be a man, bent and no taller than the girl. He looks like a monk. His robe is shiny black, the hood completely covering his eyes. All I see of him is a nose in the shape of a hawk’s beak. A braided black rope defines his waist. He holds a white tablet and takes small steps.

Kiva dear, Father’s awake, Bell says, starting to unbuckle the wrist strap.

Mother, don’t! Kiva shouts, holding up a hand like a traffic cop. Don’t untie him.

Why? Bell hesitates and steps back.

Kiva leaps to the bed. She hovers over me and points a claw-like finger at my face.

That’s not Father, she says.

Observation records prove otherwise, the monk says. We found His Majesty in his meditation chamber.

Clegg, I’m telling you, that’s not Father, Kiva says, sounding as menacing as her sharp fingernails.

How do we confirm that assumption? Clegg asks.

Look at his eyes, she answers. Do you see Father in those eyes? I don’t see Father in those eyes.

I wonder what kind of dream I got myself into this time. Here is a beautiful, wild-eyed girl, hovering over me like a bird of prey, staring down into her father’s eyes, and seeing me. Far from being aroused, I’m experiencing terror.

Clegg remains silent, turning toward Bell, as if to solicit her opinion.

Neuro-scan readings are normal, she says. Perhaps the strain of meditation affected his eyes. He may have gone into the light. We’ll know more later; he needs time to recover.

We don’t have time, Kiva says. The Forum meets in half an hour. We need to find out if Father connected with someone. We need to find out now.

He can answer your questions later, Bell says, stepping to the bedside. If he went into the past, he’ll still be disoriented; he needs to rest.

Clegg clears his throat, nodding toward Kiva.

Perhaps, considering Her Majesty’s observations, we might defer to her medical opinion, he says.

This isn’t about anything medical, Clegg. Kiva says, turning on him. You know my powers of insight; I’m telling you I see a stranger in those eyes; I see a consciousness. She turns back to face Bell. Where’s Quinessa? She should be here.

She’s in surgery.

Get her out here, Kiva’s demands, displaying childish impatience, very nearly stamping her foot. Call her now, she adds.

Don’t you think I would, if I could? Bell asks, turning her hands palm up. The surgery’s on lockdown; she’ll be there for hours. An Outsider was mangled in a mining accident.

I’m sorry, Kiva says, nodding slightly, before turning to Clegg. But we still have to find out what Father was doing and what happened to him.

I have no idea, Clegg says. I agree he appears conscious, but he’s made no attempt to speak.

You’re right, but I see him listening. He can’t talk, because if he does, we’ll find out he’s not Father; and he knows it. I say we find out the truth.

Dear one, you’re assuming too much, Bell says. You can’t be sure you’re right. Besides, if he doesn’t know where he is, he’ll be afraid to speak.

Mother dear, Father named me Viceroy because I can make a decision, and I’ve made one, Kiva says, stamping her foot. And I’ll make another assumption. Maybe Father found out who’s plotting against us. Maybe there was a transfer during meditation. Maybe someone here knows something about it and doesn’t want to tell us.

Kiva stares down at me so intently I wish I had something, anything, to tell her. She’s right about me not belonging here, but she’s wrong about me knowing anything more than that. I enjoy listening to them argue, but for the life of me, I don’t know what they’re talking about; however, I do believe in telling the truth.

I’ll find out the truth, Kiva says, reaching to her waist. She grabs the jeweled handle of her dagger, pulling the glistening blade from its scabbard, putting the point against my breastbone. You want to tell the truth, don’t you? she asks.

I gasp half a breath, nodding my head slightly.

I would advise care, Clegg says. We know nothing of his emotional state.

He looks calm enough to me, Clegg, and I have questions to ask, Kiva says.

She holds the dagger perpendicular, acts like she’s twisting the ruby knob off the handle, and lets go. The dagger remains standing on my chest. I rock my shoulders back and forth. The dagger sways but doesn’t fall.

Where’s my father? Kiva asks, leaning closer, her eyes narrowing into strips of glistening purple.

I wiggle my torso, but the dagger stays balanced on its point. Everyone stares at the glowing ruby. It throbs with a red light.

Why doesn’t that thing fall over? I ask. Does it have something to do with chemistry?

Bell gasps; Clegg steps back; Kiva’s eyes open wide.

The red light flashes brighter and faster.

Answer the question, Bell says.

What question? I ask. What’s the problem?

Where’s my father? Kiva repeats.

I don’t know where your father is, I say.

The ruby stops flashing, returning to a dull glow.

Kiva, Bell says. Are you sure this is safe.

I know what I’m doing, Mother. Kiva nods twice.

Perhaps we should remove it, Clegg says.

Not yet. Kiva looks me in the eye and points at the dagger. Do you know what it is?

That’s the craziest knife I ever saw.

It’s a truth dagger. When I ask a question, you have a minute to tell the truth before the blade starts cutting your chest. If you lie or don’t answer, you’ll be responsible for your death.

This dream is taking a turn for the worse, I say.

What are you talking about?

I was having a terrible dream, a humdinger of a nightmare, and now...

Take care how you answer, Clegg interrupts. The dagger’s monitoring.

I don’t care what the dagger’s doing. I’m asleep. This is just another nightmare, and I’ve got a feeling I’ll have to change this one before it’s over.

What makes you think you’re asleep? Kiva asks.

I remember going to bed. I was tired of studying and went right to sleep.

What were you studying? Clegg asks.

Clegg, I’m supposed to ask the questions. Kiva glares at him, then down at me. What were you studying? she asks.

Chemistry. I’ve got a midterm in the morning, I say. Pretty soon the alarm will go off, and you trolls can go ruin someone else’s sleep.

I’m not a troll, Kiva says, and you’re not asleep.

I know one thing, I say. Those aren’t my toes. I’d like to pin a truth dagger on you and ask you where my feet are.

Putting a hand to her mouth, Kiva turns to Clegg.

He’s just a student, she says. He doesn’t know anything. What was Father thinking?

King John knows about meditation transference, Clegg says, but procedures for doing it in deep time were destroyed long ago.

"Kiva covers her face with her hands.

I don’t believe it, she says. Father hasn’t been out-of-body in his whole life. He must be lost. We’re under siege, and he’s not here to negotiate.

He was depressed by his failures with the Four County Council, Clegg says. Maybe he was desperate to find a way out.

Maybe he did what he was trying to do, Bell says. Maybe he succeeded.

I feel an urge to get in on the conversation.

I’ve got something to say, I say. If your father’s sleeping in my body, he’ll have a rude awakening when the alarm goes off. I hope he doesn’t mind being six foot one instead of four foot something.

Kiva’s eyes flash.

You’re not being helpful, she says.

I’m tied down with a dagger pointed at my heart, and I’m supposed to be helpful? I’m the only one who laughs.

Where’s your body? she asks.

As far as I know, it’s in my bed.

Where’s your bed?

In my room.

Wait. Bell raises her hands. Ask him where he lives and where he goes to school.

I live in Berkeley. I’m a freshman in college.

Oh, my word. Bell puts a hand over her mouth.

Where do you live? Where do you go to school? Kiva asks, menacing me again.

I just told you.

My voice activates the dagger, Kiva says. You have to answer.

I stare at the dagger; it starts throbbing again.

I live in Berkeley. I’m a freshman in college, I say, watching the red light fade.

Clegg fidgets with the white tablet he holds.

Ask him what year it is, he says.

What year... Kiva hesitates. What year do you think it is? she asks.

1949.

Oh dear. Bell grabs onto the side of the bed. Who was John trying to reach?

Do you have a name? Kiva glares at me again. What’s your name? she asks.

My friends call me ‘Johnny’

What’s your full name?

John Calvin Rivers.

What’s your number?

I don’t have a number. John Calvin Rivers is all the name I’ve got.

The truth dagger stops blinking.

Kiva catches her breath and grabs the dagger off my chest. Her hands shake as she slips the blade into the scabbard. Then she bows to me, and a murmuring Clegg nearly drops his tablet as he bows.

Bell gives me a welcoming nod and proceeds to untie me. She looks at the other two. He’s John the Dreamer, she says. Father succeeded.

I sit up on the edge of the bed, noticing my little brown legs and tiny kneecaps. The briefs I’m wearing are perfectly adequate, but the fabric is so shear I barely feel it. The three little trolls stare at me.

I stare back at them.

Now it’s my turn, I say.

What? Kiva asks.

It’s my turn to ask some questions.

Ah... she pauses, looking at Bell and then back at me. You mean you want to...interrogate us? She places a hand on the handle of her dagger.

I don’t need a dagger to ask questions.

Well, then, she says. Ask your questions.

What’s this business about the light?

Sunlight, Clegg says. It’s very dangerous.

That’s weird, I say.

I assure you, it’s true, he says.

Okay, what year do you guys think it is? I ask.

4732, Kiva says.

What? I say the word loud enough to make Clegg’s hood quiver. He seems to notice I’m looking at him. I suppose you use the Chinese calendar, I say.

No, we use the same one you use in Berkeley, he says, sounding matter-of-fact.

I look to Bell, and she gives me a little smile.

4732...AD, she says.

And you don’t think I’m dreaming? I laugh. So who’s this John the Dreamer?

No one answers the question, so I ask it again.

Who’s John the Dreamer?

He doesn’t know who he is, Kiva says.

How could he? Clegg rattles his tablet. He’s still a teenager.

He had a bad dream before he woke up, Bell says. He said it was nightmare. If he’s John the Dreamer, it had to be a prophecy.

If my nightmare’s a prophecy, I say, you guys are in a world of trouble.

Kiva holds up a hand.

Mother, get him dressed. Clegg, inform the Quinum that the Speaker’s awake and we’ll attend Forum. I’ll tell Sir Dean.

Who’s Sir Dean? I ask, getting no answer.

Clegg mumbles at his tablet.

Bell disappears into the green fuzz. A moment later she returns, carrying a bright red robe, a gold belt, and a pair of sandals. She drops to her knees and fastens the sandals on my feet. She gets up and unfolds the robe.

Stand up and hold out an arm, she says.

I can put it on, I say, reaching for the robe.

No, I have to do it. It’s the custom.

I stand up and face her. I’m not any taller than she is. I feel compact and well balanced, but I’m not used to being so close to the floor.

Hold out an arm, Bell insists.

I hold out an arm, and she gently guides it into a sleeve. The cloth is as light as tissue paper. She reaches around my neck, spreading the robe across my shoulders. Her body moves against me, and I feel a sensation that causes me to catch my breath.

Are you all right? she asks, putting the other sleeve on me and overlapping the robe in front.

The fabric fuses seamlessly as she runs a hand down the overlapping edge. My knees quiver at her touch.

Are you all right? she asks, waiting for an answer.

I’m not used to...someone dressing me.

We’re nearly done, she says, smiling a little smile. It’s customary for a wife to dress her husband.

Ah...wife?

Of course, and your doctor. She smiles again and puts her arms around my waist to fit the belt and tie it. She reaches to lift the hood over my head. I feel her body rub against me.

Wait, I say. You’re touching your husband, but I’m the one feeling it. I’m not used to a beautiful woman rubbing against me.

Thank you, she says. I didn’t mean to upset you.

I’m just a little embarrassed, I say. I wouldn’t want to take advantage of the situation.

Oh. She puts a hand to her mouth. Her fingers press her lips but don’t hide the smile. This is my husband’s body, you know.

You and your husband must be very much in love.

We certainly were once. Her smile turns into a short laugh. We’ve been married twenty-seven years.

That’s not possible. You’re not that old.

I’m fifty-eight.

I don’t believe it. I look at her. I know a young woman when I see one.

We don’t age. We control the process.

What? How?

Bell doesn’t answer. She shows me a Mona Lisa smile.

Aren’t you two ready yet? Kiva’s voice cuts the silence. Mom, straighten up his hood.

I’d rather not wear a hood, I say.

Everyone in Orfon wears a hood, Bell says. It’s the law. She pulls the hood down over my forehead and stands to the side. Kiva steps in front of me.

How do I look? I ask.

Keep your head down and hide your eyes.

I tilt my head forward until I can just see her face from under the hood.

How’s that?

That’ll do. You look decent.

Swell, take me to your leader, I say.

You’re in his body, she says, frowning. I hope he knew what he was doing.

I thought you were in charge, I mean, you have that dagger and all.

I’m Viceroy, and for your information, the ruling Regency and the Quinum all have truth daggers.

"Does Clegg have one?’ I ask.

Clegg steps towards us and gives a nod. I can’t help but focus on his beak-like nose. He opens a flap on the side of his robe. Against the shiny black background of an undergarment gleams the bejeweled handle of a truth dagger. He withdraws it between thumb and forefinger and holds it out to me.

Don’t touch the blade, he says. It’s flexible. It might grab you finger.

I take hold of the handle and examine the blade. It’s longer than Kiva’s blade and shiny enough to make me squint.

This thing’s bright enough to put your eye out.

From Clegg I hear what might be a chuckle or a clearing of the throat. I hold the ruby between thumb and forefinger and hand the knife back to him.

I expected it to be heavier, I say.

The blade’s a woven filament, lighter than...

That’s enough, Kiva interrupts. We don’t have time for this.

I heard you mention a siege? I say. What’s that about?"

We’ll talk about it later in Consult, she says.

What’s Consult?

A place where we can talk, Clegg says, gesturing with his tablet as if to point out the room. This is Recovery. Everything that happens here is part of Medical Records.

We’re being recorded? I ask.

Yes, he nods, and I notice his beak again. We don’t have complete privacy here. The Quinum has rights to Medical Records. They’ll be reading all about you.

Who’s the Quinum?

They’ll be sitting across the table from us at Forum. We have to go now, Kiva says, pointing at me, displaying her purple fingernails. She hesitates and then bows to me. With your permission I’ll assume the role of acting Speaker.

Anything you say, I say.

Of course, you may have to answer some questions.

I know how to answer questions, with or without daggers. I hear a noise from Clegg, and I begin to think he has a sense of humor.

Kiva leads us to the far wall. Clegg has me by my left elbow and Bell holds my right arm. We wait.

Clegg leans close to me. His whisper is soft and harsh at the same time. If asked to relate your dream, don’t leave out any details.

Are you kidding, I say. I couldn’t forget the details if I tried.

I hear the sound of something sliding followed by the bong-bong of a bell. I expect an elevator.

Kiva steps into the wall and disappears. I hesitate, but Clegg and Bell guide me through the green fuzz. My face tingles. I stop to rub my eyes.

That’s like walking through a spider web.

You’ll get used to it, Clegg says.

We enter a sphere with shiny metallic walls that curve down to a circular platform with nine chairs, three rows of three. They look like spaceship chairs from a Buck Rogers matinee serial.

Kiva takes the front-row center seat that faces a black box with red and green lights.

Clegg leads me into the second row. I flop into the center chair between him and Bell. She tells me to straighten up. I do so in a hurry as clamps encircle my shoulders, legs, and midsection.

What kind of chair is this? I ask.

It’s a very safe chair, Bell says.

I can’t move my body, but my hands are free. My nose still tingles, so I give it a rub.

Entering, Kiva calls and pushes a button.

I hear the sound of wind, and the sphere moves. Our chairs are bolted to the platform, but it rocks like it’s on rollers. I’m floating and don’t know what to focus on to keep my sense of balance.

What kind of roller coaster is this? I ask.

It’s a carriage, city transport, Clegg says.

The platform rolls as the sphere rotates upward and rises. Our chairs recline, and the force of acceleration pins me flat on my back. I can’t even lift my head.

After a few seconds the sphere rotates forward. The platform rolls, and our chairs return to an upright position. I imagine we’re at the top of an arc and traveling at a tremendous speed. I try to relax, but the platform suddenly swings up the left side of the sphere as we bank into a sharp right turn.

I have an uneasy feeling in my stomach.

I’m getting carsick, I say.

What? Bell looks confused.

I’m going to throw up.

That’s not likely, she says, but she studies the look on my face.

I’m not kidding, I say.

She reaches into a pocket of her armrest, pulls out a tissue, and places it in my hand.

Hold this over your mouth, she says.

The tissue is flimsy and no bigger than my hand. I would need more than this just to blow my nose.

This won’t do any good, I say, but the sphere plunges into a steep left turn, the platform rocks up the sidewall, and my stomach revolts.

I cup my hand with the tissue still in it over my mouth and try to stifle the retching. I know I’ll make a mess, but maybe I can catch some of it.

This stomach isn’t mine, but like all stomachs in a similar state, it unceremoniously empties itself.

I end up teary-eyed and sweating. I look for the mess, but my robe is clean and nothing hit the floor. I’m still holding the tissue, but now it’s as fat as a beanbag and just as heavy.

This is amazing, I say, examining the swollen tissue. It’s even dry.

How do you feel? Bell asks.

I’m okay now.

Are you done throwing up? Clegg asks.

I think so, I say.

Let me have the results, he says, pulling out a cellophane bag and opening it.

You must be kidding. I drop the lumpy beanbag into the opening.

We need to analyze this, he says, zipping the bag shut, putting it under his robe.

Clegg manipulates his little tablet and whispers at it. I suspect it’s a kind of telephone.

I turn to Bell.

Is he talking to someone? I ask.

He’s arranging for the analysis of your vomit.

Why? I can tell him what I ate last night.

You weren’t in that body last night, remember?

Oh.

John always fasts before he meditates, she says. His stomach should’ve been empty.

He must’ve snuck out to an all-night diner, I say.

The sphere swings around and slowly backs up.

Docking, Kiva calls.

I hear a metallic click. We stop, but the platform of chairs continues to rock. When the movement stops, the chair releases me. I get to my feet, but my legs wobble.

I can still feel it rocking, I say.

You’ll get used to it, Clegg says.

He grabs my elbow again, and Bell takes my arm. We follow Kiva to a sliding panel that opens to green fuzz. I duck my head and don’t get the tingling in my nose.

We step into an enormous rotunda with a floor of green slate. A man dressed like Clegg bows to us. He takes the cellophane bag Clegg hands him and scurries down a stairwell.

We walk the distance straight across to tall, double doors with brass fittings and relief carvings of vines and flowers. Two more Clegg-like figures flank the doors. They bow. Clegg takes one aside and whispers into his hood while Kiva taps her foot.

In a moment Clegg joins us and points at the doors. The monks push them open, and we step into a large room decorated in red and gold and dominated by a long conference table of polished mahogany.

The table stretches out lengthwise before us. Seated in five chairs on the right side are five hooded figures, wearing silver robes with white belts.

They rise in unison, bowing to us, then sitting down again. They speak not a word. They fold their hands, resting them on the table in front of them, looking as still and cold as marble statues. Each has a little white tablet close at hand.

On our side Kiva sits in the center chair. It’s fancier than the rest, and I suspect it’s the Speaker’s chair. Clegg points me to the chair on Kiva’s right. Bell goes to Kiva’s left.

I slump down in my chair and try to get a glimpse of what’s under the silver hoods across the table. I catch sight of parts of two beards, edges of chins, and a segment of lower lip. The silver hood across from me reveals half a nose much like Clegg’s but not as grand.

The doors open, and a purple robed man rushes in.

Don’t get up, please, he says. Remain seated, I beg you. I know I’m late...my fault entirely...these developments. Can you imagine?

His robe flaps, his sandals clatter, and gray hair sticks out both sides of his hood. He hurries down the line of chairs and sits next to Bell.

I lean forward to look at him. I can see more than half his face. He smiles at me, and I smile back. I think he’s Sir Dean. Kiva said she would call him.

Kiva reaches out her arm just above the table.

With permission of the Regent, I will serve as acting Speaker. I hereby declare this Forum in session, she says, bringing her hand down flat on the table.

Clegg sits in the chair on my right. He leans over and whispers at the side of my hood.

Just be yourself, he says.

Okeydokey, I say and notice a twitching of the folded hands of the little beak across from me.

Kiva clears her throat, still pressing her hand flat on the table.

Before I open the meeting for discussion, she says, I wish to introduce John the Dreamer to the Forum.

She pauses, seeming to take a moment to consider how best to proceed.

CHAPTER TWO

Johnny, Kiva says, "Orfon is ruled by the Forum, which consists of the Quinum and the Regency, each has five members. The Regency is the ruling party so long as its five members vote for Regency rule.

The Speaker leads the Forum, and as acting Speaker today, I sit in the Speaker’s chair. The Quinum sits on the other side of the table. Quinum Chairman Perras sits across from me. He’s Minister of Transportation.

Hello, I say, getting a nod of his silver hood.

Seated on the right side of Chairman Perras, Kiva continues, is Minister Barnell, Department of Energy.

I speak again and receive another nod.

On his right sits Minister Slavin, Department of Water Production and Manufacturing.

This time I just nod and receive the same.

Seated on the left side of Minister Perras sits Minister Rios, Department of Engineering and Technology.

Hi, I say, nodding firmly, getting a nod from the little beak across from me.

On his left, Minister Ramsey, Department of Labor.

Minister Ramsey and I exchange nods.

On the Regency side, sitting to our far left, is Sir Dean. He’s Secretary of Information and Records.

Hello, I say, leaning forward to look at him.

Pleased to meet you, he answers, smiling, making up for the coldness on the other side of the table.

Queen Belinda is Secretary of Health and Education, Kiva continues. King John and I are Regent and Viceroy. We make decisions for all departments and negotiate with Outsider counties. Secretary Clegg heads the Security Service.

I’ll try to remember, I say.

Kiva lifts her hand off the table.

Minister Perras, sitting across from Kiva, raises his right hand a few inches and holds out two fingers. Kiva turns her right hand palm up towards him as if she is handing him something.

We’ve studied Records from Recovery, and we’re unanimous in our deep concern for the Regent’s mental health. Do you have any additional facts regarding his mental stability? he asks, ending the question by pointing a finger at Kiva.

If you read Records, you know as much as we do. When we found out who he was, we got him dressed and brought him straight here.

Minister Perras again holds out two fingers, and Kiva responds with her palm up as before.

I’m watching a meeting run with hand signals.

Don’t you mean that you found out who he believed he was? Perras says, pointing again.

Didn’t you read that he passed the test? Kiva responds, pointing back at him.

We think it’s more likely that the truth dagger was fooled because the Regent believed with total conviction that he was telling the truth. No doubt his obsession with meditation transference and the stress of trying to negotiate the siege resulted in a neurosis, possibly schizophrenia. Believing he’s an ancient historical figure like John the Dreamer is a symptom of just such an illness. The facts can’t be interpreted in any other way, he says, folding his hands, turning back into a marble statue.

Bell signals to speak and is recognized.

The Regent underwent a complete neuro-scan until he woke up, she says. We found nothing anomalous, and that’s a fact. Don’t you think so?

She points at Perras. He unfolds his hands.

Then you don’t know what’s wrong with him either, do you? he asks, pointing back at her.

No, but if your theory of mental illness were correct, we would’ve found some evidence of it, she says, folding her hands.

Minister Barnell, sitting on the right side of Perras, signals to speak.

With no provable facts one way or the other, he says, we have no choice but to petition the Medical Board to examine the Regent and propose treatment. I feel the Arbiter will vote in our favor and allow the Quinum to assume Speakership and negotiate with the Four Counties.

I raise my arm to the center of the table and hold up two fingers. The silver hoods draw back.

I think you’re overlooking some evidence here, I say. How about me? I’m a fact, and there’s no insanity in my family. That’s a fact, and I got here in the middle of a nightmare. That’s another fact.

I wave my arms for dramatic effect and see the silver hoods sway like flowers in a breeze.

Kiva grabs my arm and pulls it down.

Put you hands on the table, she whispers. You’re not being polite.

I’m sorry, I say. This is all new to me.

Minister Rios, sitting opposite me, signals to speak and points a finger at me.

That was rude of you, he says, and I think you know it. You’ve no right to wave your arms around.

Hey, didn’t I say I was sorry? If that’s not good enough for you, we can step outside, and I’ll tattoo that little beak of yours.

I clench a fist and fake a sudden move at him. He jerks back and almost knocks his tablet off the table.

I mean to laugh, but Clegg touches my shoulder, and I’m instantly paralyzed. I hear a gasp from around the table. I can’t move. I can’t open my hand or close my mouth. I’m aware I’m breathing and that my heart is beating, but I can’t even move my eyeballs.

Clegg, that’s not necessary, Bell says. He’s not going to hurt anyone.

He needs to learn some manners. Clegg says, speaking with a voice of authority.

He touches my shoulder again, and I slump back in my chair and take a deep breath.

Holy mackerel, I say, turning toward him. You did something to my voluntary nervous system.

That’s exactly right, he says, leaning over with his face near the side of my hood. Just be yourself.

I’m about to argue that I was just being myself when I catch his drift. I figure the plan is to keep the Quinum off balance.

Yes, sir, I say, pretending to sound repentant.

We’re a peaceful society, Clegg says. "Striking a person in anger is a banishment